Letting Go
by arthursdragon
Summary: John is gone. But can Sherlock let John go, and keep living his life? Or is the pain more than he can bear?


**Letting Go**

John felt the bullet tear through his chest. A searing pain. The sticky warm liquid covering his torso. The sound of sirens, and the warm wet tears of Sherlock hitting his face. He heard yells and screams, and a soft, sad voice. "Don't leave me. Don't go."

He saw a light, and heard a voice. Maybe his subconcious, maybe something more. _"Let go, John. It's time."_

How could he leave? His husband was his heaven on earth. He saw a brighter light, harsh,and unfriendly,and heard loud noises. Then that silky voice. _"Let go. It's alright."_

But then Sherlock. "Hang on, John. I love you, don't leave me alone." The warm raindrops on his face. He wanted to stay. But his wound felt otherwise. He felt that pain, and he wanted it to end. But Sherlock would go away if he left. But the pain. Burning hot, yet cold. Excruiating and unyielding. Then a brief release. The silky voice. _"You can let go."_

John heard Sherlock after. "You can do this, John. For me. Don't leave me this way. Not yet. I can't let you go!"

_"Let go, John. Let go." _

Why should he? Sherlock didn't want him to go. And he loved him more than anything. But the pain. The pain was unbearable. He grabbed his husband's hand and held it tightly, trying to anchor himself to life.  
><em>"The pain will go away if you let go. It's alright, John. Sherlock will forgive you." <em>

John couldn't take the pain. But he wouldn't leave Sherlock. The raven hair appeared in a blur over his heavy eyes. "John? Hang on, my darling Watson."

John felt the pain going away. His eyelids felt like rocks, sinking down.

The raindrops hit him faster.

_"Let go, John. It's time to go." _He whispered a plea to the voice.

"Don't make me leave. Why do I have to go?"

John felt his pain dissolving, and that warm light came back. It was inviting him in. He could hear the cries of his husband become more frantic. "You don't have to leave, John! Just stay with me! I know you can hang on!"

"I love you, Sherlock."

The raindrops were heavy and fast. "I love you more than anything, John. Don't leave me!"

John wanted to grant Sherlock's wish more than anything, but the light was so intoxicating and warm and his pain was all but gone. He felt the light envelope him, and he heard his Sherlock call his name one last time as everything went dark.

Sherlock sat in his chair. Finally he had been left to grieve with only the mandated eyes of Lestrade and the concerned eyes of Mycroft upon his face. Not one muscle moved that didn't have to. Not one sound escaped his lips. His pale, white face was streaked with angry red lines. His head pounded, and tears rolled down his cheeks. Never ceasing. At first they had been cold, and drenched his face. Now they burned like fire. A hand reached out with a glass of water. He couldn't drink. The tears would stop if he didn't drink. And maybe his heart would stop aching. He felt a massive pain, like a hole in his chest. He didn't know why. He was a sociopath. Everyone knew. He never felt strong emotions. But he felt this. Like a million knives plunging into his heart over and over. And he heard the same words in his mind.

"Why do I have to leave?" John's last question. Had it been directed to him? He didn't know. But if it had or had not been meant for him didn't matter. He felt the guilt almost as strongly as the grief. It was his fault John was dead. He had dragged him on a dangerous case, made him take lead, believing the enemies to follow instead of confront. He looked at the empty chair across from him. Just the sight was enough to break the state of still, quiet that had settled over 221B.

All at once his muscles broke free of their bonds. He had to tell John he loved him. See him again. Sherlock ran for the kitchen. He had almost closed his hands around a perfect, sharp, silver blade when a force knocked him back. He tried to fight it, but it was too strong. He saw Lestrade's face. Frozen in a mask of fear and shock. Sherlock gave up his fight and let Greg's arms wrap around him as he sobbed. "I have to see John again."

Mycroft stood in the corner. He watched Sherlock collapse into Lestrade's arms, sobbing and crying John's name. He thanked his lucky stars he had never found anyone so dear to him as Dr. Watson was to Sherlock. He saw that his brother was already past curing. No longer sociopath or foolish man in love. He was empty. Consumed by the want to see John again.

Sherlock went to the funeral. He understood now what John had felt when he had faked his death. Another dagger dipped in guilt plunged into his heart. He walked towards John's coffin, supported by his friends. They had chosen an open coffin, so Sherlock could say goodbye one last time. As he approached, Sherlock's hands shook violently, and his legs lost their will to keep him from wobbling. He looked into the coffin. John was lying there, peaceful, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. Sherlock knew it wasn't real. He remembered John's face as he died. Frightened. Confused. He grabbed Mycroft's shoulder and let his brother guide him to a seat. He sat through an hour of words that were rehearsed and meaningless. He had volunteered to do the eulogy. His chance to show the world how much John Watson meant to him.

His name was called and he slowly got up and walked unsteadily to the front. His fellow grievers all looked into his face. His sunken eyes, the dark circles underneath. The shaking hands, and the eyes that glistened with tears. They knew at that moment that Sherlock Holmes was no sociopath. Sherlock reached the podium and put his face near the microphone. He started to speak in a shaky voice.

"John... John Watson was the love of... was my best... I can't live without... My fault... It's my fault."

Sherlock began to sob and mutter, slamming his fist against the podium. He sank to the ground and let Mycroft and his friends drag him away.

Sherlock was back in the chair. It was the only place that he could sit without excruciating guilt and grief ripping his heart to shreds. Here he could see his husband. They made him eat, as much as they could. They made him drink. But he exchanged water for liquor. But they didn't make him leave his chair. He stared at John's chair. All day. Every day. He stared at that chair and pictured John, sitting there, reading his newpaper with his coffee, waiting with a warm kiss for Sherlock in the morning. Sherlock never wanted to move from this spot.

He refused to eat, and drank only liquor after a time. He became dilusional, and one day he returned from a forced shower to see John sitting in his chair, reading his paper. He looked up and smiled, lifting his head to kiss Sherlock gently. "Hello."

"John, you're here." Sherlock was crying, and sat down in his respective chair, reaching a hand out.

"Yes, I'm 're not much of a detective are you?" John took Sherlock's hand affectionately.

Sherlock smiled tearily. "I've missed you so much. I love you more than anything."

"I've missed you too."

"Have you been eating and drinking? Sleeping and solving murder?"

"Yes."

"Are you lying to me?"

"Yes."

"While I'm here, I thought we could talk. "

"I would love nothing more at this moment."

"You have to let me go, Sherlock." Sherlock stopped smiling.

"I can't."

"Yes, you can."

"How could I possibly?"

"You'll find a way."

"But I love you, my only emotions are for you. My heart beats only for you. And I killed you. The one thing that made my life livable."

"You'll still love me. And what happened wasn't your fault at all. But either way, you have to let me go. Get on with your life."

"I'll try."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I love you more, John Watson."

then John disappeared,

Mycroft watched Sherlock deteriorate. The refusal to eat became more steadfast. They had to force food down his throat at times. Mycroft let Sherlock drink, let him barely eat. He could do little else but watch. He wanted to believe Sherlock would change his ways. Clouded by a naive hope that Sherlock had a will to live.

He drank, saw John, and slept. For a month. One day, when he was left to his hallucinations, Sherlock didn't see John in his chair. He panicked, and drank all the liquor he could find, trying numb the pain. He felt sick, and tired, and his heart raced. Suddenly, John stood before him, and held out his hand.

"You never listen, do you?"

Sherlock smiled. "Never once."

Sherlock took John's hand and got up from the chair.

"We can be together now."

John smiled. " I was hoping this day would be at least forty years from now, you ass."

"You know how I hate to wait."

That night, Mycroft found Shelock, in his chair, cold, empty bottles of liquor scattered all over the floor. His tears welled up, but he smiled. Sherlock laid peacefully, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips.


End file.
